“Emotional abuse is any pattern of behavior that undermines an individual’s self-worth and sense of reality.” ~Beverly Engel
At first the changes were small.
I stopped wearing the dress that everyone liked because they said it didn’t look good on me. I let certain friendships fade because it made her uncomfortable. I laughed less at things he didn’t find funny.
I checked myself to make sure my expression was pleasing to him. I shrunk a little, in a way that no one else would notice.
Then it got bigger.
I didn’t trust my own judgment because he said I was too sensitive. Or that he didn’t do what he actually did. Or that he didn’t say what he said. Or that he didn’t remember.
It happened so many times that I started to believe his version of reality.
I thought about every decision. I asked for permission to do things that I naturally did. I drafted and edited everything I wanted to say and tried to get it right before it came out of my mouth.
I even found myself editing my own thoughts before they were fully formed.
I learned to read the sky like a sailor. A slight change in tone. A gesture. A certain look. As he hung up the phone.
I was perfectly and painfully attuned to his moods, needs and expectations.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped asking, “What do I need? What do I want? What is true for me?”
Instead, I asked, “What is the exact thing you want to hear? What do you need right now? What would calm things down?”
I stopped listening to my own internal compass because I replaced it with something else. His approval. His acceptance.
Everything was organized around his comfort, liking and convenience. We went to the places he wanted to go, did what he wanted, when he wanted, the way he thought was best.
From home projects to trips, my life reflected his preferences.
Then one day, years later, I looked in the mirror and realized that I didn’t know who I was anymore.
The things I loved? I can’t even remember the last time I did them.
My opinion? I wasn’t sure what they were anymore.
The person I was before the relationship? He felt like he was dead. Or maybe it was never real.
It wasn’t by accident. That’s what toxic relationships do. They don’t just take your time, energy or peace. They take your identity and drain it.
Slowly. Quietly. One small assignment at a time.
Until the person entering the relationship and the person still in it hardly recognize each other.
It’s not just about losing yourself. It is that you lose the ability to find yourself. Because the compass you use to navigate (your gut, your intuition), the still small voice that tells you what’s true—is gone.
I didn’t understand what I was in for until I started researching.
I hated the word “people-pleaser”, so I tried to distance myself from it. But the research made me look at the root of my own patterns.
I also had to accept that his behavior was not situational or one-off events. There were patterns I couldn’t deny.
I knew cognitively that his rants and outbursts, which absolutely terrified me, were related to what he was going through at the time, or the trauma he was carrying, or so he said.
But since I’d never seen him react like that with anyone else, I started to think something was wrong me.
That I somehow provoked him and just couldn’t find the right way to turn off his mistreatment.
His behavior was in such stark contrast to the image he presented in public that I thought people would assume I was the cause.
Whenever I tried to speak up or represent myself, no matter how gentle and careful I tried to be, I was met with rage.
In those moments when I wanted to scream, defend myself or run away, I smiled or apologized to end the rage. I overwrote my own reactions and just focused on calming her down and saying whatever I needed to say to stop her anger.
If you are told enough times that your perception is inaccurate, you will eventually begin to distrust your own eyes.
You say yes to things you don’t have enough bandwidth for, because saying no is dangerous.
You feel constantly exhausted, not only from the relationship, but also from the constant mental strain of figuring out every thought, feeling, and decision.
Their voices are so drowned out that yours goes silent, and you almost don’t even notice it’s happening.
This is what makes it so hard to recognize from within.
You don’t wake up one day and think, “I’ve lost my ability to trust myself.”
Just…don’t trust yourself.
He thinks that maybe everyone feels insecure about it, or everyone needs to check it out someone before deciding.
But your intuition is not lost. It was buried under countless moments of invalidation, someone else’s reality, and the exhaustion of constant adaptation.
You would think that the more someone loses themselves, the easier it is to leave. That the pain eventually outweighs the pull.
But trauma bonds don’t work that way.
There are many reasons why people stay in relationships that are slowly destroying them for years, sometimes even decades. Not because they are weak or don’t know better.
One of the main reasons is the sunk cost fallacy.
The sunk cost fallacy is an economic concept that means the more you invest in something, the harder it is to walk away.
I have invested a lot of time, energy, love, hope and even my dreams into it. I protected the relationship with the people who loved me and made excuses for him.
I believed in possibilities and persevered through things that would have quickly ended other people’s relationships.
The few times we broke up I was greeted with desperate pleas for me to come back. Great gestures. He promises that things will change. I didn’t want a project. I wanted a companion. I didn’t want to fix him or anyone. I just wanted to go out! But he had a way of making me feel so guilty.
One moment he was sad, the next he was angry at me for leaving and told me that I was another source of trauma in his life.
So I would stay a little longer. Because maybe it will be better. Maybe if I tried harder. Maybe if I get smaller, quieter, I’ll be more of what he needs.
Maybe if I proved my undying love and loyalty in a way that diminished me, it would finally work. Then he finally saw it.
The longer I stayed, the more I lost. Not just more time. More of myself.
And one day I realized that the cost of staying was unbearable because I had already paid for everything I had.
If you’re reading this, you’ll recognize your own experiences and think, “But I’m smart. I’m successful. I should have known better. How did this happen to me?” – stop here.
Because it’s just a shame to talk. And it’s lying to you.
Traumatic bonds do not exploit your weaknesses. They take advantage of the very qualities that make you who you are. Like your ability to love deeply. Your ability to see potential in someone. Your willingness to believe someone’s words, even if they don’t match their actions.
You hope that the loving way they treat you around their family and friends will be who you really are, and that the version you experience behind closed doors is temporary. Situational. It can be fixed.
You believe that if you understood them better, focused on their heart, loved them more, or communicated more attentively, you would finally emerge as the person they show the world.
But these are not weaknesses. They are your best parts, they are used against you.
That’s why intelligent, high-achieving, successful people get stuck in these patterns.
Not because they were naive or weak. But because they believed in someone’s potential more than in their own discomfort.
Sometimes the only proof you’ll ever need is a feeling.
And your brain can’t get out of it. The cycle of tension and relief (an unpredictable mix of warmth and withdrawal) trains the system to crave the pattern. The body adapts to stress responses. What is healthy starts to feel unfamiliar and your survival mode kicks in. This is why you can know someone is doing you wrong and still be unable to walk away.
But the person you were before the relationship isn’t gone.
Every small step you take towards yourself – every boundary you set, every moment of clarity, every time you choose your own well-being over familiar attraction – you will find your way back.
You don’t have to go today. You don’t have to figure everything out.
Just remember this.
You were someone before the relationship. And there will be someone after him.
The cost of living is constantly rising. But the price of leaving is the price of becoming yourself again.
And it’s worth the cost.
Fortunately, intuition does not die. At Hiber.
Start with those small moments.
Small choice. “I want tea, not coffee.” A small limit. “I can’t do it today.”
A small observation. “It was a bad feeling for me.”
You don’t have to act on them. You don’t have to declare them. Just allow yourself to be non-threateningly right about your own experience, even if it’s only in your own mind.
Over time, these small moments add up and become threads that you can trace back to yourself.
Then one day someone asks what you think, and you don’t hesitate to tell them what’s true for you, and you trust them.
If you find yourself here, you are not weak or broken.
You are someone who survived an environment where it was dangerous to trust yourself. And her brilliant, adaptive mind did exactly what it needed to do to keep her safe.
But this environment is not eternal. This survival strategy is not who you are.
Your intuition is still there. Quietly, yes. But still there.
And it’s waiting for you to listen.
About Good luck K Iheanacho
Chioma K Iheanacho writes about regaining yourself after losing identity, confidence or voice. The former company manager turned Grace Navigator and creates programs to combat perfectionism and burnout. He writes from the inside and offers what he wished he had when he was looking for answers. He is the author Forgiveness for You: 23 Keys to Unlocking Your Freedom and Healing Your Soul. Visit forgiveness.plus.
